


The Dust of a Life

by ursa_maritima



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 15:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20641655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursa_maritima/pseuds/ursa_maritima
Summary: Modest Mussorgsky wrote Pictures at an Exhibition based off his love of art.  I'm not a composer, but I do love that DA2 found family disaster crew; here's my version of Pictures at an Exhibition- a little gallery of chapters illustrating those moments we don't get to see in-game.ItsaDrizzit has created some wonderful framed images to go along with this 'gallery walk.'(I've fudged some.of the timeline here and there - which is sort of a moot point in a mostly nonlinear narrative I guess - but the most major change is that i just can't see Warden Carver Hawke not going 'sorry but when it comes to disaster potential, darkspawn have nothing on my sister being left unattended in Kirkwall' and turning right back around.)





	1. Promenade

**Author's Note:**

> NB: I am in formatting hell and entirely out of time to fix it, so please forgive the mess. (tbd once I fix it)
> 
> About the graphic violence warning: there's some dragon fights and descriptions of minor injuries afterwards, and there's a nightmare in the chapters titled 'Catacombs' that describes some blood magic.

Hawke stepped forward away from her little sheltered corner, thrusting her staff out and away to release a wave of force to distract the dragon as she took stock of the battlefield. Varric still hadn't moved from where he’d fallen after the dragon’s tail had tossed him, and Aveline, just out of range of Hawke’s aura, was starting to strike erratically, lowering her defenses. She couldn't see Fenris, but given the strikes the dragon kept directing at its side,he was still upright and fighting. Varric, then. She darted out, hugging the wall and stumbling over the ground before she skidded to a halt at his side and wrapped one hand around the back of his head. 

“Hey, shortass, no napping.” No instabilities in his skull, thank fuck for that, but the answering pulse of magic that returned to her palm was unbalanced and uneven. 

“Hawke, light of my life, next time you and your twin decide you wanna go dancing with dragons, count me out.” 

“I don't have a twin, Varric.” 

“Sure y’do. She’s standin’ right there.” 

“That’d be your thick skull’s wishful thinking, aided by a dragon tail to the face, I think. now stop trying to get up so I can fix that, jackass.” 

“Oh, sure, since you ask so nicely.” She set her staff down, reaching out with her other hand to brush away dust and gravel as she cast a stronger spell to heal his moderate concussion. This time the magic returned to her hand evenly and smoothly, and she sat back on her heels, rolling her staff back into her hand. “I think she’s almost down; i haven’t seen her try to fly sinc-” 

She was in the air before she felt the thump of the dragon’s wing against her armor, and realized what that thump had been too late to stop herself from being slammed into the cliffside. 

“Hawke. Hawke! c’mon, we talked about fallin’ asleep on the job.” she struggled to focus her eyes and meet Varric's worried gaze. 

“Tag.” 

“What?”

“You’re it.”


	2. The Elf

“Why do you do that?” Fenris growled as he ducked out of the way of Hawke’s outstretched hand. 

“Do what?” She blinked at him in surprise. 

“ ‘Can’t have brigands damaging such a lovely face’ that, why -” 

“I-”

“I’ve no desire for jesting at my expense, as difficult as it might be to understand.”

“I-” Hawke took a breath, a tiny sharp inhale, and started again. “I’m sorry, Fenris. It won’t happen again.” Fenris shook his head, anger abruptly drained away. 

“I’m not so big a fool as to not recognize an impossibility. Your commentary is as ingrained as Isabela’s innuendo, I’ve no expect-” her expression was darkening, and he turned away, brushing his words aside with a gauntleted hand. “Forget it, Hawke,” he grumbled, and walked away. Hawke stared after him, her hands alternating between curling into fists and smoothing the edges of her armor as she wavered between anger at his dismissive condescension and self-loathing that she hadn’t seen his discomfort. Before either emotion could win, Varric caught up to her. 

“Long-legged assholes, wait for the rest of us, would you?” Hawke turned to see Merrill in the distance, jogging tiredly towards them. Everything else faded in a rush of exhaustion, and she clapped Varric on the shoulder. “Sorry, Varric. Spot you a drink as apology?”

"You still owe me for last week's back-alley brawl, but if you want to start a tab-” He spun away from her hand as she batted 


	3. Children's Quarrel after Games

"Hey, Broody, fair warning; Hawke’s a little, uh-" Varric hunted for words as Hawke spun on the bartop, spotted Fenris, Aveline and Carver taking seats at their usual corner, and brightened into a wide grin. 

"Well met again, my fiiiine fellows!" she cried, then with a strangely fluid lack of grace half hopped, half fell into Fenris’s lap. "I'm glad you’re here," she said with an unfocused intensity, then twisted to greet Aveline. Fenris stared from her to Varric. 

"yeah. hawke’s a little….that.” 

“what the fuck did you do to my sister?”

“nothing! shit!” Isabela nudged a half-empty flask in carver’s direction. “She’s been a bit mopey, finally got her to admit it was cause she’s now been in kirkwall two years, which means-” 

“two years since bethany was killed. yeah. i'm aware.” 

“well. yes. so i had this spirits of wine saved and figured hey, set least she’d sleep well tonight, she's only gonna hate us a little in the morning, but-” Isabela watched with raised eyebrows as Carver downed the rest of the small flask’s contents in a few long swallows. 

Varric sighed. 

“Well, maybe it’ll be half as difficult wrangling the two Hawkes, we’ll just point ‘em at the nearest group of thugs and bring some popcorn-” he trailed off as Carver snorted.

“This is infused with clarionweed, isn't it?”

“To help with the hangover, yes.”

“Marianne’s secret to holding her drink is this little bullshit cantrip she came up with Bethany one summer. They also discovered it reacts very strongly with clarionweed, made them loopy as fuck. All the fun of hard alcohol plus mood-altering herbs in one convenient package.” 

“Oh, shit.”

They turned to look at Hawke, still sprawled half across Fenris, half precariously draped on the bench. She was staring intently at the slightly more disordered state of his hair before reaching a hand up, stopping just short of touching it. 

“You're so floffy. Floofy. I like you all floofy,” she said absently, then broke into a wide grin. “You’re like a- a grumpy lil’ floof- lil’ stripey kitten,” she declared finally, and tapped her finger on his chin, her fingertip brushing over the lines of lyrium etched there.

Fenris stiffened, not because the contact hurt, but from its lack- he didn't feel a thing aside from the ever-present tingling thrum and the soft brush of Hawke’s fingertip. For a few seconds he just sat, surprised into stillness. Hawke twitched upright suddenly with a distressed noise, scrambling to gain her feet and not fall off the bench, knocking an empty goblet to the floor with a clatter. Into the startled silence she offered a nearly-disastrous bow of apology, then fled.

“...What.” Isabela was staring off after her, unsure as to whether she should be impressed that after that much spirit Hawke was able to move so quickly or worried about whatever might end up between Hawke and a bolthole to hide in.

“I-” Varric trailed off as Carver huffed his breath out in a gusty sigh and let his head drop momentarily onto the mostly-clean bartop. 

“Great. Time to play ‘track down your idiot sister, punch and get punched in your faces, then find the greasiest, most disgusting street food that we’ll regret seeing later, climb onto a roof and drink til we pass out or fall off and die’, my favorite game.” 

“What?” This time Isabela sounded less concerned and more intrigued. Carver pushed himself upright and pointed at the jug next to Varric. 

“That beer?”

“Wine.”

“It full?”

“Mostly?” He’d just bought it, but he had taken his eyes off Isabela for a few seconds, so it was anyone’s guess as to whether it was actually still intact.

“Gimme.” Carver held a hand out expectantly. “C’mon, she’s already got enough of a head start.” 

Three alleys, one dock, and a half-burnt warehouse later, he finally found her curled on the edge of a chimney of a lowtown rooftop. He tucked the jug more securely inside his shirt before making his way up the side of the building, dropping down at the base of the chimney. 

“C’mon,” he sighs. “Come down.” She didn’t respond, one heel tapping absentmindedly against the brickwork by his head. “Mari. C’mon.” Still nothing. Carver rolled his eyes, reached up to wrap a hand around her ankle, and gave a good yank to send her tumbling off the chimney’s edge and onto the clay roof. 

“Fuck  _ off _ ”, she growled, kicking his hand off her ankle. 

“Fuck you,” he agreed, digging the jug out and taking a long drink. She stuck a hand out loosely in the direction of the jug. “You start without me, you accept the penalty of waiting for me to catch up.” Too many years of her and Bethany’s tricks prevented him from losing his grip as the unseen force began tugging it away. “No.” Hawke groaned and let her hand flop back to the tiles. Carver drank until he felt the first twinge of sting against the side of his head - he hated wine, always started giving him a headache before he’d even got to the fun part - and then stretched his foot out to prod his sister in one hip. “Hey. Dumbass.” He waggled the jug in her direction. She eeled her way around, rising to a half-crouch before she dropped bonelessly into a semi-seated sprawl next to him. The drink she took from the jug ended in a sputter. 

“That’s  _ shit _ wine, Carver.” 

“You get what you pay for.”

“Steal better shit next time.”  
“It’s your turn next time.” They drank in silence, steadily drooping closer together. 

“Even the stars are wrong,” Hawke muttered finally. “They’re never in the right place when they’re supposed to be.”

“They must be Hawkes, then,” Carver sighed and watched as Mari flung pebbles off the roof, first with her fingers, then with magic. It’s foolish to try and out-stubborn a Hawke, but it was her turn to break. She’d waited him out last time; this time, he’d return the favor. Finally she abandoned her pebbles and scrubbed her hands over her face, grumbling under her breath. 

“She was so good, Carver,” she said, her voice a half-whisper. “Just like a story hero.”

“I know.”

“Not like us.”

“i know, Mari.”

“It's my fault.”

“Isn't.”

“It was, you-you even said so, to me. Cold and sober and not lying.”

“Mari-” He had said that. He’d meant it, too, but he’d only meant- he’d meant magic. Magic killed Bethany. Magic that had driven the creation of darkspawn and circles and rebellions and violence, violence, violence- but getting mad at magic was like getting mad at a blizzard. Bethany would have understood what he’d meant, and Bethany would have been able to translate in a way that Marianne would have listened to, but...well. Bethany’s gone.

“I was there.  _ Right _ there. I should’ve saved her.” Marianne rolled unsteadily to her feet as she spoke, wavered slightly as she gestured wildly. Carver groaned as he listed to the side she’d vacated. 

“I was there too, fuckhead,  _ I _ should’ve saved her.”

“You could have killed the ugly fucker but you couldn’t have saved her and I  _ could _ have saved her! I didn’t!”

“You couldn’t have saved her because you were busy making sure none of the  _ rest _ of us fucking  _ died _ -” Carver pulled himself upright, throwing his hands in the air in frustration, both of them not hearing each other as they talked over one another. “Mari, I’m gonna shove you off the goddamn roof if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

“You couldn’t shove shit off a…” her eyes unfocused slightly as she searched for the word, then she huffed out the rest of her breath and dropped her hands to her sides. “Fuck it. Can we just fucking fight already or do we need more alcohol because because I’m-” 

Carver hooked one foot around her ankle and yanked, sending her crashing to the ground. Her fingers crooked inward as she fell, and he stumbled forward, tumbling down after her. 

“That’s CHEATING!” He bellowed as he struggled to his feet. Mari cackled as she rolled away, dodging unevenly towards the stairway at the side of the building. He scrambled after, launching himself down the stairs and off the lower balcony, where he crashed mostly into a pile of single-use market baskets but enough into his sister to send her sprawling against the cobblestones. The knee to his kidneys he dodged, but doing so meant the elbow she’d intended for the side of his head landed straight across his mouth, sending him reeling back, one hand scrabbling at the edge of her shirt in an effort to keep her down- she overbalanced, bouncing off the nearby market stall face-first before launching herself back at him with a growl.

This, they knew. It was an unending source of exasperation for their mother, this way of communicating that they had. Bethany had understood it, even if she’d rarely partaken in it herself. Whatever he said, he could never say it the way Marianne heard it, and he always heard something other than what her actual words were. Something that was intended to be encouraging felt like a suckerpunch; sympathy became sarcasm. But an elbow to the kidneys with enough force to bruise but not actually hurt? That made sense.


	4. Tattle

It was too early for the knock on his door. Fenris pulled it open, scowling preemptively, but it was Hawke- granted, a Hawke that looked worse than he’d seen her before, which included after a battle for their lives in a rancid sewer. One of her eyes was blackened, she had a few small cuts at her cheekbone and hairline; one pant-leg was several inches shorter than the other, the sleeve at her elbow torn and singed. She lifted her gaze to meet his but frowned, distracted momentarily. He watched as she covered the nearly swollen shut eye with her hand, muttered a few words- nothing happened, so she prodded experimentally at it before wincing and dropping her hand again as she looked at him one-sidedly.

“I owe you an apology for yesterday,” she said, her words impeccably formal and very at odds with her appearance. It’s very disconcerting. He’s used to seeing Hawke in various degrees of bedraggled dishevelment, and he’s seen her a few times in fancier getups, but he’s never heard her sound like this. Her vowels are clipped and crisp, the usually soft, rounded faint Ferelden tone entirely absent from her speech. 

“Hawke, you-” She held up a scuffed palm to forestall his response.

“I know Isabela didn't know how the spirit-wine would affect me, and I know I didn't know that's what she was giving me, but that doesn't excuse my actions. You've made your intention and boundaries very clear and I completely ignored them. I was disrespectful and I apologize. It will not happen again.” She finished the quiet recitation and paused for a fraction of a second, time that Fenris spent blinking at her in surprise. Her lips tightened briefly, pulling the cut at her left chin open again, and she bowed deeply. “I am sorry, Fenris,” he heard her murmur at the base of her bow before she spun on her help and strode quickly up the lane.

He could call after her. Part of him wants to; the rest is stuck circling around the memory of her finger brushing his chin, the weight of her across his thighs, and the startled fear he’d seen in her eyes before she’d fled. No. It’s definitely too early for that line of thought. Bed. Bed’s a much better idea than trying to think.

  
  


Fenris had scarcely shut his eyes before the pounding at the door started again. This time, it was Carver, also looking the worse for wear, though the stubbly scruff hid the swollen bruise at his jawline surprisingly well. It was a strange moment, seeing the normally carefully put together Carver looking more like his sister than Fenris had ever imagined. 

“Where the fuck’s my sister.” It was not a question.

“I do not know.”

“Bull fuckin shit, she said she was coming here to apologize and she’s not back yet so she must be here.”

“Why would she remain here?” Carver favored him with an unimpressed look.

“Because she liiikes you, y’stupid hot elf bastard. C’mon, roust her out, she owes me a healing for trying to break my jaw and blowing me through a wall.”

“She’s not here, Carver. She was here, she said her piece, she left.”

“And you just let her leave? What kind of long-ass hard to get waiting game are you playing?”

“There’s no game. I am happy to fight beside her as our interests align; I think she has an admirable goal, we are mutually useful to one another in the tasks we have chosen to take on. There is nothing more.”

Carver blinked slowly at him, his expression dubious.

“Mabari  _ balls _ , you’re an idiot,” he declared, then pushed away from the doorframe with a toss of his hand. He turned back abruptly, one finger jabbing towards Fenris. “You’re afraid because she’s a mage. Like she’s gonna lose it or something? Two things wrong with that. One, I got dibs on that, fucker, nobody gets to kill my sister but me. Two-” he sneezed convulsively, dropping the accusatory finger to cradle his head in both hands, moaning “fucking spring fucking allergies fucking  _ lilacs _ -” He straightens back up, eyes reddened further. “Okay, two, if you’re worried about her control go ask her why she only casts shit like healing or barrier or the occasional gusty force bullshit. You’ve seen Anders blow shit up. Merrill…. _ melts _ shit, I dunno, i don’t  _ want _ to know- Bethany would freeze your tits off and then blow you to hell, you should’ve seen her, mage or not I bet you two would have gotten along like a fuckin’-” Carver’s expression shuttered. “Offense,” his tone entirely different, flat and level. “Offense, that's my point. Marianne might rearrange your insides and break your legs but she'll do it with her hands, her staff- never with magic. You should ask her why.” He turned on his heel and stalked somewhat unevenly away. 


	5. Promenade (3rd)

Varric swatted hawke’s hip with his notebook, then made a belated grab for her as she curled around it and staggered sideways. 

“What the- Hawke!” She stayed bent for a few breaths, then straightened, an unconvincing smirk on her face. 

“Gotta test your drama skills, Mr Playwright. “ She rolled her eyes at his and Aveline’s unconvinced stares. “It’s just a bruise, Varric, you’ve got good aim.” 

“What bruise.” Fenris’s voice is too sharp, again, but he can't stay silent. He’d been first uncaring, then suspicious before, and now- 

“Whaddya mean, what bruise? We just took on a cave full of dragonlings  _ and _ a mama dragon, you expect me to come out of that like an intact porcelain cup?”

“Varric’s unbloodied. Aveline’s nose isn't broken. I’ve had worse from tripping on my rug. We fought that dragon with you. So what’d you do, forget to heal your own damn self?

“I don’t-” her shoulders tightened slightly before she squared them out.

“Like you forgot to heal after that syndicate brawl? That bloodmage trio? Or did you think we hadn’t noticed you limping, that we just decided to make camp three candlemarks from Kirkwall for the fun of sleeping in sandflea territory?”

“This is b-” Varric wiggled a hand in a see-saw motion to interrupt.

“Nah, Hawke, he’s got a point, y’know.”

“Fine. Can we please agree to have this stupid fucking discussion _after_ i’ve had the chance to drown this damn headache in a vat of wine and soak my _superficial_ _bruises_ in a bigger vat of water, or is that too fucking much to ask?

“My bath is closer.” Hawke turned her head- too carefully- to glare at him. Fenris shrugged. “Yes, it is not closer, but it  _ is _ better, and neither involves a walk through the shades nor is in a residence including your uncle or sweet Carver. But, no, by all means, enjoy your bath with a lecture and a litany of your faults instead of excellent wine.” 

“Fine,” she said after a long moment and gestured at Fenris to lead the way. “I doubt I’ll avoid the lecture but I’ll definitely take that wine.”

As they headed off, Varric flipped a coin out and rolled it around his fingers, turning to Aveline with an inquisitive grin. She tossed her hands out protectively, shaking her head. 

“No. No, I learned my lesson last time. You want a sucker to take a sucker’s bet, you go find Donnic.”

  
  


After the second hissed curse Fenris dropped the armful of towel he’d carried over on the chair and walked towards the tub. 

“As entertaining as it is to watch I’m-not-hurt-at-all Marianne Hawke attempt and fail at unpinning her hair, I do want to sleep sometime before dawn and I believe that if I leave you alone, you’ll likely drown.” He paused a few steps away from the tub, unmoved by Hawke’s baleful glare. “Well?”

“Fine.” She sank sulkily deeper into the water. “It’s just the unbraiding, no need to worry about getting stabbed by pins.” He worked his fingers under the coiled braid, freeing the end, and began to undo the strands. 

“You called me Marianne,” she said finally.

“It is your name. If that is a shock, you hit your head harder than we thought.” 

“You said it the Ferelden way. No-one’s called me that in years. Carver calls me Mari when he’s feeling charitable enough to not rub the whole ‘Hawke’ thing in my face, but-”

“You are Fereldan. If you took offense, i offer my apologies.”

“No, it... it’s nice.” It was more than nice. The soft sound of the vowels in Fenris's low baritone was still reverberating along her skin as much as the gentle brush of his fingertips against her scalp. 

  
  


“I told you to stop, once. And you did.” 

“Fen-”

“You didn’t ever ask why.” 

“You told me, Fenris, I-”

“I lied.” Hawke fell silent, her breath draining out in a long sigh.

“You don’t have to tell me why,” she said finally. “You don’t need a reason to ask me to do or not do something.”

“I didn’t want what you gave everyone,” he murmured as he dragged another section of braid free. “I heard how your words to Merrill and Anders and Aveline were friendly, but empty. How you’d tease Isabela and Varric but didn’t entirely mean it. I didn’t want your words if-” he stopped, focusing his attention on the braid that wasn’t nearly complicated enough to warrant such distraction. He’d expected her to say something, but the silence just stretched between them, lingering like the parsley-tea-something she’d used in the bath. Distracted by trying to remember what she put in the bags, he felt himself speaking without really knowing what he intended. “I hadn’t realized they’d been different until you stopped.” He replayed the words in his head and rolled his eyes, safe where she couldn’t see. “I didn’t expect you to stop. But you did. I should have known even then, you’re too stubborn for sense. I had planned to explain myself better, but you started looking the way you do before Isabela finds a nice bar fight to distract you, and I wasn’t prepared to deal with that.” 

Fenris, please, I’m not-

-beautiful,” he finishes, then shakes his head. “magic has been so many terrible things in my life, and i meet you and think ‘another terrible risk, but one i can use’ and then you have the audacity to be  _ kind _ , to always  _ ask _ and not  _ assume _ and then i find myself thinking instead ‘Maker, that’s beautiful’ watching you cast, you-” he inhales a long ragged breath “you don't just keep us  _ alive _ , you keep us  _ whole _ , like we- runaways, apostates, pirates- worth something, and you- you sit there with what? cracked ribs and a bruise wider than my spread hands still blooming on your skin when i don't even feel the lyrium-ache in my veins?”

She has to look away from him then, her hands clutched around each other in the darkening water a safer place for her eyes than his face. 

you’re telling me now that if i were to get up out of this tub, walk over to you, and sit on your lap, that i wouldn’t end up with an arm through my chest? fenris is silent, unmoving for a long moment- too long - before standing abruptly, the stool he’d been sitting on falling on its side with a dull thunk as he strode out of the room. hawke feels the nauseating burn of her frustrated anger and hurt creep into shame. Fenris might be sharp and prickly like Carver, but he’s not Carver


	6. Promenade (4th)

“Hawke, darling, buy your old -” Isabela sat up abruptly from the languorous sprawl she’d draped herself in over Hawke’s lap. “Hold up, whoa, Hawke, you smell  _ delicious _ .”

“ ‘Bela, I smell like I've been out knocking heads together in the dust under the full sun in dark armor on a broiling hot day.” Isabela shook her head, beads and earrings chiming as she leaned in, taking a deep breath of the hair escaping hawke’s braid. 

“Nnno, well. A bit, yeah, but  _ someone _ went for a swim afterwards; you smell like salt and the sun and the sea. forget the drink, you're intoxicating enough, love.”

“ ‘Bela.” isabela’s hands came up to brace against Hawke’s shoulders as she twisted around, holding Hawke at arms’ length. 

“Sheet over a moment, Hawke, are you actually considering taking that seriously?!”

Marianne brought her hands up, crossing them at the small of Isabela’s back. 

“ ‘Bela, I've never been more tempted than I am in this moment, but-” Hawke sighed and let her head flop forward onto Isabela’s forearm. I'm not right for anything, right now. Nothing soft and sweet, anyway.”

“Who said soft and sweet had to come into play, eh? Eh? Nah, c’mon, c’mon, buy a girl a drink and she’ll sing you a song, take your mind off grumpy little cats with silver stripes and shit-for-brains-”

“Isabela.”

“What! Anyone leaving you to go off and wrestle brigands instead of curling up for round whatever does have shit-for-brains, there's no arguing with that.”

“You’re reaching for curtains and finding cobwebs, ‘Bela.” Isabela hummed a long, dubious note and flicked Hawke’s braid back over her shoulder.

“Well. Where I come from, ‘cobwebs’ don’t leave little love-bites behind ears, but what do I know?”


	7. Ballet of Unhatched Chicks

A weight settled on the bench behind Fenris, and he instinctively tensed briefly before the scent of salt-oil-wood-spice hit his nose. 

“Isabela,” he greeted her. “Run out of your tab already?” She laughed and knocked her shoulder gently into his. 

“Hardly. It is heartbreaking, however, that you never want to buy a girl a drink, Fenris.”

“We haven’t had sex, you know.”

“I am reasonably certain I would have remembered that.”

“I’m reasonably certain you wouldn’t be  _ able _ to reason after we were through, but no. Not us. Hawke- Me and hawke, I mean.” She stretched her legs out along the bench. “Not for lack of opportunity, neither. I don’t- I don’t do feelings, you know. I like people, I like sex, I like sex with people, all of that, of course. But love is for the people you’re willing to bleed for, not the people you’re fucking. I’ve fought with people, fucked some of ‘em, fucked and then fought some of ‘em, whatever- but I’ve never…It’s just- It’s  _ Hawke _ . I’ve never felt like it’s a risk, you know, if she asked me to stay on land for good? She wouldn’t, I know. But. If she did. I might say yes. I dunno. But that shit’s terrifying.” Partway through the stream of words- more than he’d heard from Isabela in one sitting nearly ever- Fenris leaned over to snag a second mug from the far end of the table and tipped the last of the jug into it before setting it next to Isabela’s elbow. 

“Cheers. I’m just trying to say...eventually, if you don’t decide, work out your head, whatever- eventually, one of these days, Hawke is gonna be punch-drunk and flirty, and she’s gonna kneel over my legs and scratch her fingers through my hair and I’m-” Isabela sighed. “I’m gonna tell myself fuck it, I’ll take what I can get, I don’t care anymore, and I’m gonna blow her fuckin’ mind. We won’t leave that bed for a week, you know? And I don’t know if Icould walk away, after.” 


	8. Catacombs

What-" Merrill rounded the corner at high speed and bounced off Aveline, stumbling backwards a few steps before regaining her balance. "-oof. What's going on? We heard-" She trailed off in response to the raised voices carrying beyond the solid oak of the door.

"It’s their mother," Aveline said quietly.

(if you were around, not off playing the fucking hero of hightown or whatever the fuck-)

"...Should they be alone in there together? That sounded like something breaking." 

"Hey, if you want to join them, it’s your funeral," Varric shrugged. 

"They’re so...vicious. even for siblings, that’s just-" Merrill winced away from where she'd had one ear pressed against the door. (if i were around? i? who between the two of us is wearing templar fucking armor, you-) “Maybe...it’s best if we just make sure they have privacy?”

If the hallway was filled with tension, inside the room was a storm. Bethany and Malcolm had always been in motion when emotional- Bethy'd worn a hole in multiple rugs pacing back and forth ranting about something, and Carver used to have to flop into his mattress to avoid seasickness from watching her. Mari and Carver, though- couldn't sit still for love nor money normally; for them, stillness was the barometric pressure drop before the storm. Arguments between them were like an exercise in magnetics- each word pulling them closer and closer until the force between them exploded outward. Usually into fistfights. 

This time, Carver was still standing a few feet away from when he'd barged into the room past Aveline, looming over Hawke, still lost in the chair she'd fallen into once Aveline had pulled her away and tried to get her to rest. Her sprawl might have looked relaxed to anyone who didn't know her, but the bloodless fingers locked around the arms of the chair spoke otherwise. 

"Father’s gone, Bethany’s gone, now Mother- what’s left of us? A wretched drunken rat of an uncle, a fucking Warden, and an apostate mage," Hawke shook her head, a feral glint in her eyes. "Fuck that uncle, it’s you and me, Carver, we’re all that’s left of the Hawkes. The best and brightest all burnt out but there's still ashes, right? And how long are you gonna give me before you drag me off and get the tranquil sister you’ve always wanted, hm? A month? A whol-" at that Carver moves, lunging forward to cross the distance, hands reaching out to drag Marianne out of her chair but keeping her at atm's length away.

"No family of mine is  _ ever _ going to be tranquil," he spits, forcing the last word past the sudden lurch of bitter bile staining the back of his throat, the warm familiar rage gone cold and desperate. "Andraste’s fuckin’  _ tits _ , Marianne, if you ever fuck up that badly that i see a demon looking back through your eyes i’ll run you through and take your head my own damn self!" Carver lets go of her forearms, locks his fingers into the lacing of her gorget and shakes her once for emphasis. “And then, for all the bullshit you’ve dragged me into, i’m gonna take your head to that creepy-ass whatever it is down in the black emporium and have it preserved and you can be my squad’s bloody fucking  _ mascot  _ because I’ll be  _ fucked _ if you get off easy for  _ giving up _ .” His fingers tug her forward with each punctuated word until they stand inches apart, struck into silence. 

The worst of it is that he can see it. They've lost a lot- fistfights, battles, friends, family, homes- but they've never been defeated. The day a Hawke stops fighting is the day the world stops turning, but behind the anger and grief in his head and heart part of Carver is  _ tired _ . Something deep in his core is whispering that it'd be easier to stop caring, to become the shield on the armor he's wearing, unthinking and unwavering and untroubled, and he can see the echo of that voice in Marianne's eyes. He still doesn't believe she'd listen to any demon enough to let it have her heart and soul, but he does believe that if she thinks she will, she'll make sure she can't. He can't risk that. 

well, that’s…

that’s almost ...sweet.

sweet?! andraste wept, merrill, that’s just wrong.

*shrug* that much anger can't exist without love. and how terrible to lose a sister to your own blade?

preserving a head, merrill?

well, i mean. it would make a powerful talisman. 


	9. Catacombs (With the Dead in a Dead Language)

she screamed herself upright, the sound so startling and terror-filled that fenris found himself out of the chair he’d been sprawled in, sword unsheathed. he spun to put himself between the door and the bed as a paired set of dense, insistent thumps resounded through the door. 

Hawke! he snapped. she was sitting, pale as death, hands white-knuckled on the blanket, staring down at them. The door banged open and Bear came barrelling in, whuffling in an urgent whine, ignoring fenris entirely to nose at Hawke’s hands. Hawke lunged for her, hands moving endlessly along Bear’s sides, chest, legs, again and again, searching the big, battle-scarred mabari for wounds. Fenris sheathed his sword and shoved the door shut. Hawke. no response. he crossed back to her and caught the edges of her words. 

‘i wouldn't, i won't, i won't’ she repeated, almost too fast and soft for understanding. 

hawke. he reached out for her shoulder, pulls away as hawke flinches like the brief touch burns.

i had her staked, she murmured tonelessly. staked out in my room, half flayed, as a power sink. anyone got suspicious, i'd heal her up, we’d walk the city, smiling, reassuring, dog rides for the children... and i'd spend the whole time ... anticipating the moment we’d get home and i could take her apart, see how slowly i could go. she leaned forward, pressing her forehead into Bear’s flank, letting the hound’s steady inhale-exhale move her head gently up and down.

i know carver will come for me, he hears her say after a few moments. but i don't- she falls silent again. I love my brother, Fenris, i’d hunt whatever hurt him to the ends of the fade, but i don’t- if i- i’m afraid he won't be enough. 

hawke. 

That i’ll be too strong, too- she swallows hard, grimacing like it hurts, too focused on making him writhe that he won't be fast enough, strong enough, to put me down.

hawke-

and i won't- i refuse to believe that merrill or anders wouldn't try to help him, i know merrill is passionate about the right use of magic and-

marianne. her eyes snap up to his, the movement like a startled halla in response to the sharp rasp of his voice. The emotion behind her eyes is hard to read, like a wild animal about to break for cover or feint an attack, but Fenris thinks it is less fear and more anger, or perhaps a twisted sort of desperate conviction. It’s hard to find words in the face of that gaze, and the silence stretches out unwillingly between them.

you’re a fool, Fenris says, his voice lower, harsher than he’d intended. it’s foolish to think i’d let you see me coming for you, Hawke, he finishes, and watches as some of the wildness leaves her eyes. 

and you're more a fool for thinking we’d let you get that far that you'd be vulnerable to any crawling punk-ass fiend. 


	10. The Hut on Hen's Legs

“I can’t deal with this right now, Fenris, I’m sorry.”  
“You disappear for weeks, you leave without warning, you-” he struggled for words. “You take your brother and a delusional war mage who thinks he can stop being a war mage and just be a healer and a dwarf poet and only those-” he raised a gauntleted hand to forestall her protest “-the dog does not count, for fuck’s sake. You take them into the worst possible place you can think of and you expect things to go well? You don’t expect those you left behind to be upset?!” Hawke closed her eyes, anger and frustration unable to overcome exhaustion despite valiant effort.  
“Fen, I-” The note of defeat in her voice is startling enough to end his tirade. “I can’t- I just got this rant from my mother, I still have to go explain to Aveline what happened, and I-” She fell silent for a long moment. “I lost Carver,” she said finally. “He’s alive, he’s not- he’s not dead, he’s not like Bethany, but he’s- He’s not here. I may never see him again. He’s facing something that- that’s just undescribable, and it’s my fault.” The unspoken ‘again’ echoes loudly in the brief silence.  
“It’s not-”  
“It is. I had the choice. I could have told him no when he asked to join us. I could have asked you.” She lifted her head, staring at him with an odd light in her eyes. “Who should i have asked to take his place? Who would I rather suffer the blight and have a choice between death or servitude that leads unerringly to an eventual death anyway, Fenris? Aveline? You?”  
“Now you’re headed back to that mine - where you know in advance this time there will be dragons - and you do not ask me to go?”  
“Because if I asked, you’d go!”  
“And so you did not ask, and yet here I am.  
“I don't want you to go because I ask you, Fenris. I’m done putting people I love in danger because I have a stupid plan. I want you to go because you want to go.”  
“Don't patronise me, Hawke. if I don't want to do something you’re asking of me, trust me. You’ll know.” He held her gaze for a long moment before folding his arms across his chest. “So are we going to go kill this fucking dragon, or what?”  
“Statistically speaking, good things do not tend to come from us fighting dragons,” Hawke said sourly.  
“...not all bad.” Hawke froze at the soft, half-heard words, struck into stillness for a long moment before blank-faced turning on her heel, striding out the door at a speed just too slow to be called ‘fleeing.’


	11. Promenade (5th)

There’s blood on his wrist, and hawke reaches out, snagging his gauntlet and turning his arm upwards to look at it in the light. The flash of red she’d seen wasn’t blood, though- just a bit of fabric. Very familiar fabric. She can’t quite look away, can’t manage to release her fingers to let go of him. 

“I’ve been looking for that for awhile,” she finally gets out, easing the words past a wild, unsteady feeling in her chest. 

“Do you want it back?” There’s a challenge in his words, like most days, but it’s different. Quieter. 

Silence

Only if you come with it.

  
  


...i shouldn't have left. that night. you're like an ache, hawke, some terrible curse that i find myself missing your unbelievable jokes and that horrible toneless torture you call singing and the way you'll lay your armor out like a child but leave your fine clothes kicked into a pile. you terrify me, Marianne. you; not your magic. 


	12. The Kirkwall Gates

“Hey.” it’s difficult to elbow someone wearing armor, but Carver’s a little brother. He’s had ample practice. “Hey.” Fenris drags his eyes away from the fight in the hall to glare at the interruption but shifts into bafflement when he sees 

“What is that.”

“Moose shit.”

“... _ What _ .”

“Moose shit. Not actual shit from an actual moose, c’mon, you’ve been on enough journeys with Mari, you’ve seen her stuffing her face with it. Here.” He wiggles the bag at Fenris again. “It’s just little chopped bits of dried fruit and nuts rolled in chocolate. Nothing moose-related.” Merrill cranes her head around and makes a small noise of delight. 

“Why do you have  _ snacks _ at a duel in which your sister is fighting the  _ Arishok _ ?!”

“Because we’re going to be here awhile and it’ll be bad form if a new Grey Warden faints from hunger? Because there is no outcome here other than Mari wearing out a brand-new pair of boots while she runs that giant horned bastard into the ground? Look at her!” Carver starts to gesture with the bag at the fight, but is stopped by Merrill’s delving into it with gleeful fingers. He waves his other hand instead, encompassing the arena with a dismissive gesture. “She’s faster than he is, she’s more nimble than he is, when he does manage to land a hit on her, her barrier eats most of the force, so whatever little does bleed through is easy to heal. He can’t hurt her. Of course, now that she’s gone through all the non-loadbearing pillars, the staff’s the only thing doing damage to him, and he’s a beefy motherfucker, so we’ll be here for awhile. 


End file.
